Page 50 of Explorer's Revenge
“It should.” He frowns, eyeing it. It’s only one or two years old, black, and meant for off-roading with an extended back.
“I’ll check it over,” I say, and Way follows me. I yank on the door, finding it unlocked, and peek in the front seat. It’s empty. There’s a chain with a cross dangling from the mirror and some wrappers shoved in the middle compartment, but not much else. Looking between the seats, I find Way in the back. “Nothing but some insects that we’ll clear out.”
“All clean!” I call to Wilder, and he heads over. He lets Maeve down at the door, and we help her onto the back bench seat. We push it back as far as it can go so she can stretch her leg, and I climb in opposite her, sitting with my back to the passengerseat and propping her ankle on my knee. Way and Aiy climb into the front, shutting doors against the storm, as Wilder and Logan climb into the back and close the door. The engine is long since dead, so we hand out some lanterns that we spread out.
“At least we aren’t wet anymore,” I tease, shaking my head like a dog to wring out my hair. Maeve laughs and squeezes hers out as she looks around.
“This can’t have been here long. It isn’t even overtaken by nature yet. It seems we aren’t the first people here. You think that thing got them too?”
The question sobers us, and I look at my brother.
“Probably, or simple exposure.” Wilder shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll take shelter for the night.”
Logan climbs over Wilder, who grunts, and once in the back, we hear him rummaging around.
“What are you doing?” Wilder asks.
“There are some kits here. They must have left them because they were too much to carry,” he calls, and I climb over Wilder to help him. There are several black boxes, and we search through them. Many items are way too big to carry, the idiots, but others are helpful. I put together a pile of flares, hoping they still work. There’s a small camping stove and some rations that might not be expired. Logan finds some medical supplies and hands them over to Wilder as we keep searching. At the bottom of a box, my hand connects with a metal item, and I freeze.
Pulling it free, I hold it up, and Logan’s eyes widen. “Is that a gun?”
“A pistol,” I clarify, and Wilder and Maeve turn to see us.
“Put it back,” Wilder demands. “You idiots can’t be trusted with a gun. Besides, it’s probably empty.”
Maeve reaches over and grabs it. “Hey!” I protest, but we watch as she deftly checks it with sure fingers. “It’s loaded. Are there any more clips back there?”
“Uh . . .” I rifle through the box and retrieve two more, handing them over. “Just these.”
“It’s better than nothing.” She shrugs. “My dad taught me to shoot when I was younger. It might not kill that motherfucker, but it might help if it comes at us again.”
“We lost it,” Wilder says, “but keep it if it makes you feel better. Now, this is going to suck, but we need to redress your wound and stitch it properly.”
Her eyes widen, and she looks at us for help.
I wince for her. “Sorry, cupcake. Hope you like pain.”
“Not like that,” she says, but she nods. “You’re right. Let’s do it.”
Climbing over, I glance at Wilder, who appears anxious. “Maeve, just look at me, okay?” I tell her. “I’m much more beautiful.”
She smiles, and I give her one of my own as I take her hand and squeeze it, hoping like hell we get out of here soon so we can get her help.
This world would be a boring place without Maeve Carter, and the idea that she could die here terrifies me more than that creature we faced.
THIRTY-THREE
MAEVE
Wilder turns me and stretches my leg out on the seat. My sock is already off—one I stole from the others, as well as their spare boots—leaving my foot bare as I lean back against the truck door. I reach up and grip the oh shit handle as Wilder looks at me.
“Ready?” he asks.
“Do it,” I order, and he peels off the bandages. I grunt but bite down on the pain. It’s bad but not unbearable. As he exposes the wound, though, I know this is going to be terrible. He has a sterilized setup before him, and he grabs scissors and tweezers.
“I need to get rid of your stitches. If we were being rescued tomorrow, I wouldn’t, but I’m worried about the damage. There is a staple gun here, which will be better,” he explains as he leans over my leg. “This will hurt.”
“No shit—fuck me!” I scream as he cuts through the shoelace and starts to pick it out with the tweezers. Each tug of my torn flesh creates pure agony. I’m sweating profusely and trying not to punch him. My tongue bleeds from how hard I bite it to stifle my bloodcurdling screams, not wanting to draw anything’s attention.
